


asset deviation

by charizona



Series: ladies of poi - martine rousseau [2]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Undercover
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:56:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The screen lights up with another address and Martine wants so badly for the Machine to talk to her. Martine wants so badly to listen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	asset deviation

**Author's Note:**

> prompt: listen. 
> 
> Martine my child undercover Samaritan agent. Horribly misunderstood.

Turning on in the middle of the night, Martine’s cell pollutes the room with brilliance.

She blinks awake, rolling in the sheets with an uncertainty that comes after years on jobs like this one, and in her ear Samaritan croons _text from an unknown number_ helpfully. “Thanks,” she mutters before clearing her throat. SHe never takes the earpiece out unless absolutely necessary and often, when that time comes, she needs the expertise of the artificial intelligence even more.

On the screen of the phone, once her eyes have adjusted to the light, Martine makes out an address from a number she hasn’t seen in a long time.

No one has this number other than Greer and Jeremy; she’d never entertain a late night conversation with either of them, let alone meeting up at a time like this. There’s only one option left, and from the way Martine recognizes the number, she slides out of bed because she has to.

She dresses slow, slipping into her clothes and sliding a gun into her waistband. She’s out of her apartment and down the steps about ten minutes later. Glancing sideways down the block, eyes drifting briefly to a camera affixed to a traffic light, Martine decides to walk.

Samaritan keeps her updated as she goes, giving her information about the houses and building she’s passing, or the cars that pass her. She’s come to enjoy the constant chatter of the AI in her head, even if the information is virtually useless. It does come in handy at times. The day Jeremy had tried it, he’d demanded the flow of information stop hours later, asking for only relevant information. She takes a small victory in knowing she could probably withstand torture for far longer than he could.

_You’re entering unmonitored territory_ Samaritan tells her, but Martine already knows. It’s the point, really, when you’re meeting with the enemy. She’d had an inkling of what the address could be when she looked at the text, and as she turns another corner and looks down another street, she spots a payphone. She loves being right.

She turns off her earpiece, takes out her phone battery, and leaves them both almost ten feet away from the payphone that suddenly starts to ring.

She answers.

_“Golf. Echo. Tango. Sierra. Hotel. Alfa. Whiskey.” GET SHAW_.

Martine almost melts at the vast array of voices bouncing against her eardrum. She’s waited for this for what seems like too long. “Where do I take her?”

_“India. November. Tango. Echo. Romeo. Foxtrot. Alfa. Charlie. Echo. Alfa. Charlie. Tango. India. Victor. Echo.” INTERFACE ACTIVE._

Martine hangs up the payphone, hyper aware of her surroundings. The vigor of meeting an old friend is running through her. She slides her phone battery back into place and then the earpiece. Samaritan’s static buzzes idly by; it doesn’t seem any more aware than it was a few minutes ago, and Martine catches a cab, giving directions for outside of the city

The last time she’d seen the Analogue Interface, Samantha Groves had tried to kill her. The bruises around her throat hadn’t gone away for weeks. Martine understands, mostly, and she’s been so deep in cover she’s proud that it seems as though he ruse has worked on the “enemy”, too.

Samaritan alerts her that she’s arrived a second before the cab stops, and the tinny voice in her ear is nothing compared to the multiplicity of generated voices that belong to the Machine.

There’s a guard at the door. She knows him well, and all it takes is a smile and she’s on the elevator, going to the sublevel.

Down a dimlit corridor, the guards increase. They’re all still awake and amusing themselves, stationed at every corner, but as Martine passes, she catches shoulders straightening and gazes lowering. She’s in charge here, has been ever since they brought Shaw in. It’s better if most of them don’t know Greer’s face.

“You four,” she says, pointing out a cluster. “We’re transporting Shaw. Wake her up, but keep her drugged. We don’t want a repeat of last time.”

Heads nod and cards are hastily put back into their box. Martine waits as chairs screech across the concrete, as they get the sedatives ready, and she follows them further into the ground toward Shaw’s holding cell. She wonders, briefly, what Samaritan thinks of what she’s doing down here. Whether it’s already caught on to what has happened and if Jeremy’s been alerted, or even Greer. Martine takes a small satisfaction, regardless, for having gotten the drop on them.

There are no cameras down here.

Shaw is roused awake and doesn’t like it one bit, but as her eyes are rolling to the side and as her muscles have no control of themselves, she finds enough energy to glare in Martine’s direction when she catches sight of her. Martine is silent as they bind Shaw’s wrists, though she swears her heart is loud enough anyway.

The guards take her to a prepared car, and she’s tied down two seats behind Martine in the SUV. As one of them prepares to slide into the driver’s seat, Martine stops him. “It’ll just be me going.”

“I have orders not to let her out of my sight, ma’am.”

“And I”m giving you new ones,” Martine says, eyes flickering dangerously. It has the intended effect. “Stay here, and I’ll take her to the new location.”

When she gets in the car, the guard hesitates once more. “I’m sorry, but where is the new location?”

“Need to know,” is all Martine says before she’s driving away and out of the garage. Looking out her side mirrors, she watches the guards stand in the light for just a moment longer. They won’t last very long under interrogation, she assumes, but by then Martine will be long gone.

_Asset deviation_ Samaritan informs her, and Martine thinks: sure as shit.

Martine takes out her earpiece and glances at her phone. The screen lights up with another address and Martine wants so badly for the Machine to talk to her. Martine wants so badly to _listen_.

It takes about twenty minutes of nonsensical driving for Martine to realize that Shaw isn’t asleep back there, or, at the very least, rolling around in the seat. She’s sitting straight-backed and staring at Martine through the rear-view mirror, eyes dark as the night. Martine isn’t equipped to explain the situation, or the various times she’s tried to kill Shaw, but Shaw hasn’t asked any questions yet.

Tightening her hands on the steering wheel, Martine keeps driving. The itch of Shaw’s gaze distracts her from losing herself in the endless stream of streetlights, but it isn’t nervousness pricking at her. It’s practically fear.

She’s afraid that she’ll never see the other end of this tunnel, that she’ll never get to help tear Samaritan down, that this woman in her back seat will strangle her before she has the chance.

“I’m letting you go,” Martine says eventually, because she may as well explain. This seems as good a place as any to start.

Something in Shaw’s eyes shifts. Not enough for Martine to label it, but the closest she can come to is surprise. “Why?” Shaw asks after a moment. “I wasn’t even tortured,” she points out, and Martine wonders if she would follow through with those orders if Greer gave them to her. “You guys really suck at your job.”

“For good reason,” Martine agrees, settling into her seat.

“Where are you taking me?”

“To Samantha Groves,” Martine answers. The information would spill out of her, if it could, and she’s never been more grateful for someone to ask her questions.

Shaw grunts. “Why?”

Martine meets her gaze in the mirror. “Like I said, I’m letting you go.”

“You still haven’t answered why to that, either,” Shaw says, and from the way she adjusts her shoulders, Martine can tell that she’s free of her restraints. She’s not hiding it well. The apprehension is back, even though they’re about ten minutes out from their destination.

“It’ll be easier when I can talk to the both of you,” Martine says instead of answering the question.

When they arrive to the empty parking lot at the edge of the bay, Martine is alone. She gets out of the car, pulls out her gun, and opens the back door. She points the barrel at the ground, gesturing for Shaw to come out, and the woman just stares at her from the back seat.

“You tried to kill me,” Shaw points out, still not getting out of the car.

“Maintaining my cover,” she says, and then Shaw does get out.

Martine takes a few steps away from her, ready for any sudden movement, and watches as Shaw stretches in her sleeping clothes. Shaw takes a deep breath of the night air, and Martine had almost forgotten that she hadn’t seen the sky for months.

It’s then that another car pulls up on the opposite side of the SUV, and Martine chews on how to play this.

“You’re free to go,” she tells Shaw, because Shaw is.

“If I had a gun right now,” Shaw starts quietly, “I’d shoot you. No questions.”

Martine nods. She understands the weight of the situation. Shaw is slipping into the night and around the car slowly, and Martine listens for the sound of a car door, but nothing comes.

She edges around the car herself, peeks at the situation, and comes face-to-face with Samantha Groves and a gun. She looks as angry or even angrier than before, but Martine is done with angry, she’s done playing for the other side, and she drops her gun and puts her hands up. Confusion flickers in Samantha’s eyes, clear in the darkness, but her hand remains steady.

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t shoot you,” she says, and Martine can think of a few.

“Four years ago,” Martine starts, standing underneath the pressure of Samantha Groves’ gun and Shaw’s gaze, “I was contacted by Ernest Thornhill. He offered me a job in protection, but it was only a matter of time that I realized I was protecting a human that didn’t exist. The Machine speaks to me from time to time, and I’ve been undercover ever since.”

Eyes flicker over to Shaw, who now stands behind Samantha and is a testament to Martine’s words.

“Prove it,” Samantha says instead of shooting her, and Martine realizes she’s not going to be shot at all.

She pulls out her earpiece and slides it in, holding her phone in her hand. Martine waits with the weight of the world on her shoulders, but eventually, the phone begins to ring. She answers it, watches Samantha’s eyes close as she winces, and the voices begin again.

_“Can. You. Hear. Me?”_

“Yes,” Martine breathes, and Samantha Groves shoots her anyway.


End file.
